The Camp
by BlitzVonKrieg
Summary: This story takes place before the events of Underworld and stars an original character of mine. It's the first in a series, and said series jumps back and forth through time.
1. Introduction

The sky was dark, the sun blocked out by a dark grey cloud. -A cloud of human ash. The furnaces were fired, the flames flaring around the bodies of the poor souls executed in the camp, consuming them as a dragon feasting on a knight.

The Germans had been executing many more in this camp, as of late. The Russians were on their way, and the Nazis had begun enacting their "Final Solution".

Very few of the camp's occupants dared venture outside, and if they did, they held bits of cloth over their noses and mouths to avoid inhaling their former comrades. Only one young man dared breathe normally and unrestricted.

-A young Russian soldier, by the name of Alexander Ivanovich.

Exander, as his friends knew him, was no more than average looking for a Russian soldier. He had brown hair that was cut short, brown eyes, and slightly pale skin. He wore a cold weather uniform, an officer's cap, and stovetop boots. His height of nearly six feet and weight of nearly 180 pounds had not changed, in the four months he'd been in the camp. Something the guards thought to be somewhat curious.

Exander currently stood midway between two watchtowers, the tops of his boots snug against the kill wire. He looked down at his boot encased feet, noting the wire and the three yards of open ground beyond it. The high fence, topped with barbed wire, that was three yards ahead of him was all that stood between the prisoners and freedom.

Well, the fence…and the guards…and the machineguns in the watchtowers… But yes, that was all that was between them and a relative amount of freedom.

His head tilted forward, Exander glanced from the corners of his eyes at the watchtowers – first the one on his left, then the one to his right. The guards looked at him, brows furrowed, their suspicions about them. The machine-gunner in the tower to his right readied his Mg-42, and aimed at him, as if daring him to make a move. The secondary guard in the tower to his left loaded a round into the chamber of his bolt action rifle, and a guard patrolling the exterior of the fence stopped and did the same.

Exander smirked, raised his head, looked between the towers and all the guards, and laughed to himself, then laughed aloud, slapped his forehead with his right hand, and plopped down on the ash covered ground. The guard outside the fence quipped a brow, rolled his eyes, shook his head, and went back to his patrol route.

The rifleman in the tower to Exander's left relaxed, went back to looking out over the camp, and then not seeing any other potential problems looked back out toward the woods. The machine-gunner in the tower on the right relaxed a bit as well, but kept a close eye on Exander. The gunner had an itchy trigger finger, and had been taken off the front lines six months ago.

Exander could feel the gunner's eyes on him as he sat in front of the wire, legs crossed Indian-style. Exander glanced up at the gunner, a dissatisfied huff passing across his lips. The gunner glared at him, and Exander rolled his eyes, focusing back on the wire in front of him. He plucked the wire, and indeed, it was wound tight, the entire length vibrating from one single pluck. It stopped vibrating, and he plucked it again. There was nothing much more to do, except wait for his turn in the chambers.


	2. Chapter 1

The Camp: Part One

The office was well lit; decorated with propaganda posters, awards, pictures, paintings, a WW1 helmet, an officer's saber, and, of course, a swastika. It was the only place in the camp that truly spoke of the existence of any type of civilization. Even the barracks the guards lived in were somewhat shabby.

In the room were five chairs and a desk for discussions. Currently the Commandant of the camp sat on the opposite side of the other four. His name was Heinrich Stout, and he was a firm believer in the "Final Victory" that Hitler spoke of in his drug-induced, hypnotic speeches. The men opposite him were Hans Von Grobel –a tank platoon commander-, Masnetch Galanten –the camp's "doctor"-, the camp's executioner, and an off duty tower guard.

Stout's elder-like eyes scanned the four men that sat before him. All of them were valuable tools in achieving Hitler's dream, and Nazi glory. Yet, it was doubtful that once the war was over they would be sparred from these very camps themselves. It was a dark, unspoken thought that Stout enjoyed –the old man was twisted.

"Why have you all come to speak with me today?" Stout asked, his sharp eyes gazing at them.

"I have a report from the front, Herr Commandant." Grobel began, "The Russians will be here in a matter of days. A T-34 division just pummeled us at the front, and is making its way here."

"And?" Stout half rolled his eyes. "There is an SS division not far from here, on their way to stop those T-34s. The Russians will be dispatched easily."

"With all due respect, Sir, those "soldiers" have hardly even basic training. The Russians are well trained, well supplied, well armed, and quickly reinforced. That SS division doesn't stand a chance!"

"And why do you say this? What facts can you testify for?" Stout glared.

"I can testify for everything I've just said. I just came from the front. The Russians wiped out half of a Panzer division in less than an hour. Including more than half of my tank platoon. I know how strong they are. I've also seen how the SS operates. Simply, it doesn't." Grobel said defiantly.

"We shall see in the days to come."

"The days to come will see us all dead!" Grobel shouted as he stood and slammed his hands on the desk, his chair falling backward. "The camp must be abandoned!"

"Take him out of here!" Stout ordered, two guards next to the door grabbed Grobel by the arms, and then threw him outside onto the ground, slamming the door shut and locking it as they laughed. Stout then looked to Galanten. "So what do you have to say?"

"I have noticed a particular prisoner in this camp. One that I believe may interest the Fuhrer's scientists." Galanten smiled, a glint to his eyes as his mustache curled. "I would like to conduct some tests to confirm my theory."

"Tests you say?" Stout folded his hands. "Which prisoner?"

"Ivanovich." Galanten stroked he bearded chin. "He has been here four months, with the same rations and work as the others, yet shows no sign of physical deterioration."

"Do you believe that such research could aid the cause?" Stout asked, his simple question seeming code-like.

"I believe "our" cause could be aided greatly." Galanten replied in a similar fashion.

"Then you have my permission to run whatever tests you deem appropriate." Stout said, shifting his gaze to the executioner. "And you?"

"It might prove beneficial to the doctor's research if we sent him into the chambers. If he survives, then we have yet another reason for the research. Though, it would take place after the doctor's initial tests, of course."

"I believe that's an excellent idea." Galanten agreed. "Would show us exactly what we're dealing with."

"Agreed." Stout finalized as he turned his gaze to the guard. "And you?"

"I have concerns regarding the same man." The guard spoke. "He's a troublemaker. He needs to be put down."

"Well if he dies in the chambers, we won't have to worry about him anymore, will we?" The executioner smirked, and looked back to Stout.

"Sergeant," Stout addressed the guard, "If you don't mind?" he pointed to the door.

"Oh, of course." The guard stood, the door was opened, and he left with the door being shut behind him.

"So, have we confirmed that Ivanovich is indeed of the Covens?" Stout asked.

"Not yet. Blood testing should confirm whether or not he is though." Galanten said, looking to the executioner.

"And either way we'll send him through the chambers. If he survives that, we simply execute him another way." The executioner smirked.

"Once the tests are complete, send a blood sample to Lucian. Then get rid of him" Stout grinned devilishly and looked between the two as they nodded in unison.

They had their secrets, just as Exander did…


	3. Chapter 2

The Camp: Part Two

The sky was darker today, almost as dark as night. And… it was raining. Exander did not especially dislike the rain, but saw no sense in getting soaked just to pluck on a wire all day long.

So instead, he sat in the doorway of his formerly cramped quarters. He had been sharing this cabin with about forty others. Now he only shared it with twenty. The door was open, and Exander looked to the outside world. The world beyond the fence.

His thoughts drifted back to his childhood in Russia. His childhood home however, was not the same Russia that he was fighting for in this war. That Russia had faded away with the years. No, that Russia had been grand. It had been his home. It would have been his Empire to rule as well, had it not been for his Uncle.

That Russia, was Imperial Russia.

Exander had been the son of Fyodor Ivanovich, the Russian Tsar. People called his father the "Bell Ringer" for his somewhat uncommon tendency to request to ring the bells of any church he visited. He was a religious man, a good man, and a good father. He had died too soon.

His thought drifted to his mother. A beautiful woman, with creamy skin, rosy cheeks, gentle hazel eyes, and mid length hair the color of redwood. She was the gentlest woman any child could ask for, but she was not afraid to punish her children like so many parents are today. She was gentle, fair, forgiving, and when it was called for, she was strict.

But then his thoughts went to how she died. The Lycans had killed her. His anger suddenly flashed, his eyes glowing a royal blue, his fangs lengthening. He wanted so bad to strike at something. Someone. It was true, the pack of Lycans that had killed her, he had slain, but that didn't matter. She was already dead.

And then his thoughts went to the person he'd been closest to. His younger sister. He'd promised her that he'd always be there for her, and he'd let her down. He hadn't been there when she needed him most. He hadn't been there to save her from the Lycans that had attacked her and his mother. He'd failed her.

The glow of his eyes faded, and his fangs retreated back to their normal length as he let out a sigh. He'd broken his promise to her. Worse even, he wasn't even there when she died. He never got to say goodbye to her, or she to him. That is why he'd sworn to kill the Lycans. To hunt them; to slaughter them; to exterminate them. It was his calling.

He would never forget the events that led him here. The events that led him to Viktor, and the Covens. Which in turn led him to this place. This camp, and the mission he had been given. It had been a while though since he left the Covens behind. Good riddance.

Exander halted his wandering mind however, when someone caught his eye. It was a German officer; one that seemed out of place for he wore no SS insignia. He was just a regular officer for all Exander could tell, and for whatever strange reason, he was standing in the pouring rain. His uniform, cap, and boots were all probably already ruined – soaked through by the torrential downpour. Yet, he didn't seem to care, or even notice actually. He just stood there, looking into the sky, and letting it pour on him.

For whatever reason, Exander felt pity for the man. Something was wrong, and it wasn't as simple as the war. The war may have been part of it, but it was not as simple as just saying that the war was the problem. Exander came to a decision fairly quickly, and whistled to catch the man's attention. The man stirred, and looked at Exander, who motioned for him to come over, and he did.

"So who are you?" Exander asked, the slight remains of his Russian accent shining through, coating his words like a laminator.

"Hans Von Grobel," Grobel quipped a brow. "And you are…?"

"Friends call me Exander." Exander gave a half-hearted smirk. "Captain, Russian Infantry. You?"

"Lieutenant, German Armor." Grobel rolled his eyes. "What's left of it anyway."

Exander chuckled. Poor guy probably just came from the front. He'd seen a few T-34s in action, and knew how bad the Germans had it. "Well, good to meet you. Circumstances could be better, but you make due with what you're dealt, right?" Exander extended his hand to shake, and they did.

"I suppose." Grobel shrugged. "This war would be going much smoother for me though if…" He gave a quick look around. No guards near. "If we had someone that was competent in command of Germany. Without Rommel, we've lost. I'm sure of that."

"You could be shot for saying something like that. You know that, right?"

"So long as none of these SS pricks hear me, I'll be fine. The rest of my unit feels the same way." Grobel shook his head. "Hitler taking power was the worst thing that could have happened to us."

"So you're against the war then?" Exander quipped a brow. That was strange.

"Oh, no. I'm not against the war in and of itself, but the way it's being run is idiotic. These camps…" Grobel sighed. "These camps are part of the reason we're losing. They soak up needed supplies, and give nothing in return. Not to mention that the practices that go on here disgust me."

Exander's mind began to work as he pulled out a cigarette that he'd stolen earlier from one of the guards. "Got a light?"

Grobel smirked. "Maybe." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a box of matches. Sliding out the paper tray he grabbed a match, struck it, and lit Exander's cigarette. He coughed from the smoke though.

"You alright?" Exander asked, taking another puff.

"Yes. That's just my body's way of telling me that I need one too." Grobel smiled and pulled out his own cigarette, lit it, and then tossed the match out into the rain, watching it quickly die before looking back to Exander, who was chuckling. "What?"

"Don't you think it strange, that we're getting along so well? It's as if we're not even enemies." Exander took another drag on his cigarette, and blew the smoke out, trying to make rings, but doing a poor job of it.

"Meh," Grobel took a drag on his cigarette and blew it out in rings, earning a questioning look from Exander as Grobel smirked. "Not really. You see, "we" are both civilized humans. They," he took another drag on his cig, looked in the direction of the Commandant's office, and blew the smoke out as he glared at it, "Well they're no better than some mangy undomesticated mutts." He looked back to Exander.

"My sentiments exactly, Grobel. They aren't like us. You and I are the type of men that "should" be making decisions." Exander and Grobel both looked at each-other, and then at the office.

"Looks like we agree with one another." Grobel sighed and looked back to Exander. "But what could we do? What voice do we have?"

"What voice do we have?" Exander side-glanced at Grobel. "We have all the voice we need, if we could get our hands on a radio."

"What do you mean?"

"Before I tell you, would you be willing to help me?"

Grobel looked to the office, and glared at it. The corner of his lip twitched as he looked from it, around the camp, and back to Exander with a smirk and a nod. "Yes."


	4. Chapter 3

The Camp: Part Three

The cabin was dark, doors & windows shut, shades drawn. Exander was on his "bed". He'd taken apart the other beds some days ago when the cabin became empty, save for him. He was startled awake though when he was grabbed from his bed by five guards and taken outside.

Exander began to thrash around, the guards tried to hold him tight, but he got loose and kicked one guard in the face, and then another in the back of the head. The other guards dropped him and he scrambled to his feet, punching one guard, and round-housing another.

He was about to bash another guard's face in with his fist, but stopped abruptly with his fist a mere inch from the guard's face. He'd heard one click, followed by many others, and he knew the sound all too well: cocking machineguns. He looked around, not very surprised to see that he was surrounded, or that the guards all had their MP-40s and rifles pointed at him, or that the tower machineguns were trained on him.

"Shit." Exander sighed. "Uh… Hello there." He gave a nervous smile. "So, where were we going?"

The guards on either side of him grabbed him roughly by the arms, and began to shove him toward the doctor's "medical facility".

"Hey, hey! Why so rough, huh?"

"So, when will these tests begin Galanten?" Stout asked as he looked about the lab. Strange machines were everywhere. Everything from medical equipment to Tesla coils were present. It looked like a mad scientist's laboratory.

"Momentarily Sir. We just need-." Galanten began as the guards and Exander entered. The guards picked up Exander, slammed him onto a metal table, and strapped his wrists and ankles with chain to the table, spread eagle. "Ah, there our subject is. Right on time." Galanten looked to the guards. "You're dismissed." And with a wave of his hand, the guards left.

"Well, well, Ivanovich… Let's see what you are." Stout smirked; Exander glared at him.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Grobel watched as the guards took Exander into the laboratory. He looked back and forth and then headed to the armory. He walked up to the guards, showed his pass, and entered as the door was opened for him.

Thankfully he was the only one inside, and thus had all the time and privacy he needed to accomplish his task. Walking through the armory, Grobel kept his head on a constant swivel, looking for an indicator of any company he may have missed. There was none.

Moving quickly he went to the far wall that held confiscated weapons. He quickly spotted what he was looking for: a revolver, a shotgun, and some grenades. He also spotted the ammunition for the weapons. He loaded both guns, noting that the bullets were silver, and holstered the revolver in the gun belt that was with the weapons. Now that he'd found the weapons though, he needed to figure out a way to get them out.

He looked around, pondering how to go about it. Looking over various racks, he spotted something, and a plan began to form. It was a cold weather jacket that he saw.

Grabbing the jacket, he strapped the gun belt on and put the shotgun over his shoulder on its sling before putting on the jacket. He took a few grenades and put them in the inside pockets of the jacket before buttoning it up and putting more ammunition into the outside pockets.

Picking up an MP-40, a KAR-98, and a Lugar, along with some ammunition, Grobel made his way out of the armory, the guards shutting the door behind him; silently wondering why Grobel wore the coat. It wasn't all that cold.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\


End file.
